The World Turned Upside Down
by ggo85
Summary: We've seen Doc Martin as the rude, obnoxious, but incredibly competent doctor.  What happens if the Doc were to become the patient?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

**This story is set toward the end of Series 2. It is rated PG (for language only).**

**The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fanfiction is for amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thanks to robspace54 for the beta as well as words of encouragement. Any errors (especially in converting to British English and conventions) are mine alone.**

* * *

It started halfway through my examination of Mrs. Wentworth. Suddenly, and without warning, I felt the familiar signs of bile rising rapidly from my stomach toward my throat, followed by the overwhelming urge to retch. The sensation was all too familiar, and I instinctively pulled away from my patient, looking for something – anything – to cover my mouth. I grabbed a paper towel and heaved into it, the stench of my own vomit nearly causing me to retch yet again.

"Sorry," I mumbled, taking a few steps backwards.

Mrs. Wentworth, bank manager and also the patient currently sitting on my examination table, stared at me strangely. My occasional need to vomit at the sight of blood was well known in Portwenn and generally tolerated among my regular patients. Thus, they were no longer surprised to see me look away or fight to control my stomach when tending to a bloody wound or taking blood or even seeing blood. What they didn't expect – and what had obviously startled Mrs. Wentworth – was to see me heaving when there was not a drop of blood anywhere in sight.

"Are you all right, Doctor?" she asked judiciously, frowning at me.

I ignored her concerned gaze and moved quickly to the sink to clean off my mouth and rewash my hands. "Fine," I replied without turning around.

"I must say that you don't look at all fine."

"That's why I'm the doctor and you're the patient."

Despite my bravado and repartee, I actually didn't feel all that well. My malaise in the form of a vague gastrointestinal distress had started several days ago but had turned suddenly worse this morning, which had in turn made the day's surgery and patients more intolerable than usual.

"You look a little peaked," she added. "Did you have breakfast? Maybe you need to eat something to settle your stomach. I've always found that-"

Why did my patients always feel the need to ply me with medical advice? "Mrs. Wentworth!" I turned around and favored her with a stern gaze. "You're in _my_ surgery for me to diagnose and treat _your_ medical condition. Now shall we get on with that? I do have other patients waiting."

Mrs. Wentworth frowned again but let me proceed. She'd presented with a cough accompanied by shortness of breath and, based on my careful questioning, the most likely culprit was bronchitis. The illness was more common in smokers, and Mrs. Wentworth's nasty habit had undoubtedly intensified the effects of the disease. I needed only to listen to her chest and lungs to confirm my diagnosis.

"Deep breath in," I recited automatically. "And out." I moved the stethoscope across her back hearing the pronounced bilateral rales. "Again. And out."

Finished, I pulled the stethoscope from my ears and nodded at her. "Close up." She buttoned up her blouse as I washed and dried my hands for the third time in the last five minutes. At this rate, my fingers would be raw by day's end.

"Still smoking, I see." It was obvious from the odor on her clothes and breath.

Mrs. Wentworth looked a bit sheepish. "I've done what you suggested, Doctor, cutting back that is. I'm down to only a half-pack a day."

It was a number that I immediately doubled to get the likely real total, before reconsidering. Mrs. Wentworth was one of my more compliant – and honest – patients. And she was a banker. If she said a half-pack, she likely counted out the cigarettes each morning. Half a pack was a definite improvement over the two pack-a-day habit she'd had when she first came to me. Nonetheless, as her doctor, I couldn't allow her to think any amount of smoking was acceptable.

"I told you to stop smoking altogether."

"And I'm getting there," she insisted.

"Well, you have acute bronchitis, which is aggravated by your smoking. You need to stop smoking, rest, drink plenty of fluids and, if you're feeling feverish, take paracetemol."

"No antibiotics, Doctor?" she asked, standing up from the exam table and giving me the indignant stare I received from most patients when I refused to give them whatever medication they were expecting but didn't actually need.

"No. Bronchitis is a viral infection and antibiotics are ineffective against viruses."

"My sister had bronchitis last summer and her GP prescribed antibiotics."

"I can't help that your sister's doctor is an idiot," I replied, with somewhat less vehemence than usual. I was starting to feel lightheaded and had an urgent need to use the lavatory. I started to move toward the door, hoping that she would follow. Thankfully, she did, as I wasn't sure I could resist the lavatory more than another minute.

"Rest, fluids, acetaminophen," I reminded her, speaking even more quickly than usual. "And you must stop smoking altogether if you want to get well. If you're not better in a week, come back and see me."

I opened the door to my waiting room and cringed inwardly at the sight of a full complement of patients. Pauline must have squeezed some self-proclaimed emergencies in between an already fully afternoon schedule. As always, she had an impeccable sense of timing.

My receptionist looked at me expectantly, no doubt awaiting my usual bellow of, "Next patient."

Trying to avoid eye contact with her or my patients, I called, "Back in a minute," and made my way to the lavatory.

* * *

Two hours and eight patients later was probably not the best time to be dealing with young Johnny Pope and his worried parents. Unlike most parents, who were invariably insufferably overwrought about their hypochondriacal and ill-behaved children, Edward and Melissa Pope had good reason for their concern given that they'd just been informed that the test results showed that their ten-year-old son was suffering from Type 1 diabetes.

"Diabetes? I've heard of it but I'm not sure exactly what it means," Melissa replied, nervously twisting her hands.

Not surprisingly, the Popes had no experience with the disease, which meant that I was in for a lengthy consultation.

I swallowed a sigh. "It means that his pancreas is not producing sufficient insulin to control his blood sugar levels."

"That's bad, isn't it?"

"It's . . . manageable," I replied, mindful that the boy was still in the room.

"And that's why he's been feeling so tired?"

"Yes, and why he's been thirsty and urinating frequently." I squirmed in my seat, once again plagued with an urgent need to use the lavatory, where I'd already spent most of the afternoon and, in the process, earned some very odd looks from Pauline.

"But you can cure it?" the mother asked.

"Diabetes isn't curable."

It was a good thing Louisa wasn't here, as she'd no doubt chastise me for not being sufficiently sympathetic. In truth, I did feel somewhat badly for the family. Diabetes was a diagnosis I never liked handing out, especially when it involved young children. Nonetheless, my job as the GP was to convey the information; coddling and handholding wouldn't change the facts.

At the shellshocked expression on the faces of both parents, I tried to soften my approach. "We manage the disease by monitoring his blood sugar and controlling his insulin levels."

"That sounds complicated," Melissa said.

"You'll learn."

"How long do we have to do this monitoring?"

"His entire life."

"His entire life?" Melissa's tone was almost a wail.

"Yes. Once you and the boy learn what to do, in time it will become almost . . . routine."

The father sat up straight in the chair, seemingly determined to take charge of the situation. "All right then, tell us what we have to do."

Oh, God. It was all I could do to sit at my desk for a few minutes without either throwing up or running to the lavatory. How was I ever going to make it through a lengthy tutorial on blood testing and insulin injection? Although the visiting nurse would drop in to help the family with testing and injections, as their GP, the initial instructions were my responsibility.

I took a deep breath and pulled the testing kit from my drawer. "There are two steps. First, you must test his blood. You'll need to do this several times a day." I pulled the lancet and glucose test meter out of the kit and turned to the boy, standing next to his mother.

"Johnny, come closer."

The boy's eyes widened in fear at the sight of the lancet and, instead of stepping forward, he backed away. Whatever tiny bit of patience I might normally have exerted was overcome by the fact that I was exhausted, my stomach ached, and I still needed to use the lavatory. The last suddenly became my first priority.

"Excuse me a minute." I stood up and, feeling the blood rush from my head, immediately grabbed for my desk to keep myself steady. I was more weak than dizzy but, even so, my knees started to buckle and I was finding it hard to stay on my feet.

"Doc?" The voice sounded far away. "You okay?"

"I think," I cleared my throat. "I think I need to sit down." Strong arms helped me back into my chair and I sat there gratefully sucking in air.

"Maybe we should come back tomorrow," Edward said. "When you're feeling better."

"Yes, that might be best."

Out of the corner of my eye, I observed the family scrambling out of my consulting room. Any other time, it would have annoyed the hell out of me. Right now, I felt only relief – a relief I knew would be fleeting.


	2. Chapter 2

The glass of water and stack of saltines stood untouched on my bedside table. As a doctor, I understood how important it was for someone in my situation to drink plenty of fluids, as we doctors liked to say, to combat the dehydration. Now that the tables were turned, I could see that giving the orders was easier than following them. I'd tried earlier in the day to swallow a few sips of water and nibble on a few crackers. But every time I ate or drank anything, a few minutes later I was in the lavatory, more coming out of me than had gone in.

I'd had a minor bout of GI distress last month, along with several dozen others in Portwenn. Twenty-four hours and a few packets of rehydration salts had done the trick. Not this time. I forced myself to take a small sip of water, swallowed it down, and prayed this time it actually would stay down.

A soft knock at my bedroom door startled me out of my reverie.

"Martin?" It was Louisa. "Martin, can I come in?"

How had she managed to get into my house? Pauline must have given her the key. I sighed and glanced around, realizing Louisa had never seen my bedroom, which this morning was far from its normal tidy self. And I, who probably reeked the unique smell of someone who hadn't showered or shaved in a full day, was far from my usual self. I didn't want her to see the room or me like this.

"Martin!" She rapped the door with greater urgency. "Are you all right? Martin!"

"Go away," I growled.

"Not until I know you're all right," she called out through the closed door.

"I'm fine."

"Either let me see for myself or I'm calling an ambulance."

Bloody hell. She'd probably do it too and all I needed was for an ambulance to arrive at the door of the village GP – I'd never live that down. "For god's sake, Louisa." There was no indication she had left. "All right, come in if you must," I said with little enthusiasm.

She pushed her way into the room and, standing at the foot of the bed, scrutinized me carefully. I cringed under the realization that I looked and probably smelled awful.

"Pauline said you'd closed the surgery today."

I pulled the blanket closer to my chin and kept my gaze averted. "Yes."

"She also told me that you'd spent most of yesterday in the toilet."

"Pauline needs to learn to keep her mouth shut."

"You nearly fainted in front of a patient."

"Is there a point to this conversation?"

"You're ill, Martin. And if you're ill, you need to see a doctor."

"I _am_ a doctor."

"Well, you're obviously not doing a very good job of treating yourself, are you?" She reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile. "Wadebridge or Truro?"

"What?"

"I'm calling one of the doctors to come have a look at you. Would you rather the surgery in Wadebridge or Truro?"

I sat up abruptly at this comment. "I don't need a doctor – uh —." The sudden movement rekindled my nausea, which in turn, caused me to make yet another dash for the lavatory. Only when I'd finished and looked in the mirror as I washed my hands did I realize with a groan that I was wearing nothing more than my usual sleeping attire of a shirt and boxers. Good god.

When I returned to the bedroom, Louisa was still there.

"Martin, you look terrible and obviously feel terrible. You need to see a doctor other than yourself. Now either tell me whom to call or I'll pick someone on my own."

Louisa's stubbornness was not one of her more endearing qualities. I had a pretty good idea of what was wrong with me and considered whether it would actually be possible to prescribe what I needed, send Louisa to Mrs. Tishell's pharmacy, administer it to myself . . . no, probably not.

Dr. Samuels, the GP in Wadebridge was competent enough, and the last thing I needed was to have the whole of Truro in on this little mess. The hemophobia incident was more than enough.

"Wadebridge. But, I'll go there. No need for Samuels to drive all this way."

"You'd do it for him."

"No I wouldn't."

Louisa gave me a look that made clear she didn't believe me, and she was probably right.

"I'll call for an appointment." She looked pointedly at my disheveled nightclothes, "While you get dressed."

Louisa had insisted on driving my car and, with only a half-hearted argument, I let her. Some might consider me a fool in certain respects but I wasn't foolish enough to get behind the wheel of a car while I was lightheaded.

Once we'd fastened our seatbelts, she shifted to reverse and checked the rearview mirror.

"This car is larger than yours, Louisa, so be sure to allow plenty of room when you back."

"Right."

"Stay close to the edge of the road so the crazy drivers can pass."

"Martin, I've lived here all my life and I do know how to drive."

She was careful and, after some maneuvering, we were on our way through the streets of Portwenn. Near the outskirts of town, an elderly man tried to flag us down. Louisa, in turn, slowed the car.

"Ignore him."

"Martin, he may need medical attention."

"Which I'm in no shape to give. Ignore him."

"I can't just drive past."

"Yes, you can."

Despite my protests, Louisa brought the car to a stop and rolled down her window. "Hello, Mr. Harris."

"Oh, it's you. Isn't this the doc's car?"

I leaned toward the open window. "Yes, it is."

"Oh, Doc." He stared between Louisa and me. "Then why's Miss Glasson driving?"

"None of your business. What do you want?"

"Well, I was hoping you could take a look at my ear. It's been hurting—"

"Make an appointment with my receptionist."

"Well, seeing as you're here . . ."

"We're not here. We're driving away." I nudged Louisa. "Drive."

Louisa, being Louisa, made some excuse about being late for an appointment before rolling up the window and pulling away. She glanced over at me. "Martin, that was rude."

"Keep your eyes on the road."

"Martin," she said through clenched teeth.

"You're driving my car."

"I'm going to assume that you're being so irritable because you're ill."

"I'm not being irritable. And you could drive a little faster you know."

"I was trying to keep you from getting motion sickness."

She had a point. "Right."

We pulled up to the Wadebridge surgery an hour later. It was a white clapboard building with a wrap-around porch that looked more like a bed and breakfast than a medical facility.

As soon as she'd stopped the engine of the Lexus, she jumped out of the car and ran around to my side to open the door. I brushed off her attempt at helping me stand. "I'm not an invalid."

"Of course not."

Inside the surgery, the receptionist immediately pounced on us. A matronly and elderly woman, she was the complete opposite of Pauline and, at least in appearance, reminded me somewhat of my Aunt Joan.

She beamed at me. "Dr. Martin, so good to see you." When I apparently failed to react appropriately, she continued. "It's Rosemary Briggs. I'm sure you remember me from the last time you were here."

"No."

"Well, I certainly remember you," she continued, undeterred. "Hard to forget. It's been what? At least a year since you've visited us – about Mrs. Symington I think it was." She looked skyward. "Yes, I 'm sure that's who it was. And to think you're as close as the next village." Without waiting for a reply, she pointed at two chairs. "Sit down, sit down. We just need to get you registered. The doctor knows you're coming. He's just finishing up with a patient and should be with you straight away. It was a little hard fitting you in as we're so busy this afternoon, but I know that you wouldn't have called if it weren't an emergency."

It was my turn to glare at Louisa. "I didn't call and it isn't an emergency."

The receptionist frowned. "It's not?"

Louisa stepped up. "It is urgent. I appreciate you fitting him in on such short notice."

The broad smile returned. "I'm happy to, dear. Are you Mrs. Doctor Martin? Didn't hear about a wedding, but these days, you know, so many are foregoing the ceremony—"

"There was no wedding," I said through gritted teeth.

"Martin and I are . . . friends," Louisa added, pulling me into the empty chair and giving me a look that said to shut up.

"How nice, dear." Her attention returned to me. "Let me get you the registration form." Mrs. Briggs returned to her desk, which was surprisingly new, modern and neat. Within a minute, she'd provided me with the requisite form, a clipboard and a pen. I raised my eyebrows at the unexpected efficiency.

"You know," Mrs. Briggs prattled on as I worked on the form, "I was surprised you weren't already registered around here. Would have thought that, after all this time . . . ."

I tuned her out and considered that, despite her many faults, maybe Pauline wasn't so bad. When I'd completed the registration form, I surveyed the two other patients in the waiting room. The cast on the foot of a teenage boy was a dead giveaway as to his medical problem. The other patient, a woman about Louisa's age, seemed in no discomfort and displayed no signs of the nervousness or apprehension so common to patients with worrisome medical concerns. Wellness visit or routine physical, I decided.

Beside me, Louisa was flipping through a magazine she'd taken from a stack atop the waiting room table. When she offered one to me, I shook my head in disgust. Like tea and biscuits, magazines in the surgery only encouraged visitors who lacked genuine medical problems.

A few minutes later, the front door opened with a vehemence that caused it to crash against the opposite wall. A middle-aged woman backed her way into the room. When she turned around, I saw that she was carrying . . . a cake.

"Mrs. Briggs," she exclaimed loudly, "I made this applesauce cake especially for the Doctor. He was so wonderful last week when I had that attack of gout. Such a nice young man."

Did the woman have any volume control on her voice?

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Jennings. He's with a patient now, but I'll be sure to give it to him the minute he comes out. I'm sure it's delicious."

"Oh, thank you. And you make sure he saves some for you as well, you hear?"

This conversation was giving me new reason to be nauseous.

"I'll certainly try, dear."

"Ladies, I said, starting to rise to my feet, "this is a surgery—"

Louisa punched my leg at the exact moment the consulting room door opened.

"Well, William," came a voice I recognized as that of Dr. Robert Samuels, "You and Alma enjoy your trip to Edinburgh to see the grandchildren."

"Hard to believe there's five now," replied an elderly but spry man who was obviously the patient. "Last one born only a couple months ago."

"Boy or girl?"

"Little girl. That makes three girls and two boys."

I rolled my eyes. There were patients waiting and Samuels was babbling on about something wholly unrelated to whatever this patient's medical problem might be.

"Five children in as many years," Samuels continued, "I'm sure you're very proud."

"Proud that his children know how to procreate," I muttered. "How special."

Louisa again smacked my leg. "Martin! Be quiet."

Samuels was still talking. "Now, be sure to take your medication regularly while you're away and make an appointment with Mrs. Briggs to come see me when you get back."

The patient smiled and shook Samuels' hand. "I certainly will. Thanks, Doc."

After handing off the patient to the receptionist, Samuels crossed the room. Like me, he was a tall man. However, whereas my build was that of a middle blocker, Samuels –with his long arms and lean body – was more suited for the basketball court. I knew him to be about a decade my junior, but his curly hair and boyish face made him appear even younger. As I stood to greet him, there was little doubt he was already assessing my medical condition much as I would have done had our situation been reversed.

"Martin, good to see you again, although I wish it were under different circumstances." He shifted his gaze to Louisa, who introduced herself.

"I . . . drove," she added.

"Robert Samuels. Pleased to meet you. And I'm glad you didn't let this man drive himself until we figure out what's going on."

"_This man_ is standing right here," I interjected.

Samuels turned back to me and shook his head. "You know, Martin, you could come for a visit, and not just when you want to consult on a patient or," he shrugged, "_are_ my patient."

"I could."

Samuels frowned. "Right. Well, come through then." As I stood up, he turned to the receptionist who had finally finished chatting up the previous patient. "Mrs. Briggs, why don't you get Miss Glasson a cup of tea while she's waiting."

"Of course, Doctor. Come with me. I just brewed a fresh pot. And then you can tell me all about the goings on in Portwenn . . ."

I didn't dare meet Louisa's eyes as I followed Samuels into his consulting room.


	3. Chapter 3

Samuels' surgery was slightly larger than my own, and his consulting and examination rooms were separate, but attached.

The consulting room was as I vaguely remembered it, neat and tastefully furnished, if one liked butterflies, that is. I hoped they were his hobby because . . . quite frankly, there were a lot of butterflies. He directed me into the patient's chair and seated himself across the desk from me.

"So how are things going in Portwenn?" he asked. "You've been there about three years now, right?"

"Right."

"Enjoying it?"

I shifted in the chair trying to find a comfortable position. "I do my job."

"It was quite a change from surgery in London, I expect?"

"Yes."

"Probably didn't have to make too many house calls there, did you?"

"No."

Samuels sighed and shook his head. "This isn't an inquisition, you know. Most patients prefer to chat for a few minutes – you know, talk about something other than their medical problem."

"I'm not most patients."

"No, I expect you're not." He picked up a pen and blew out a long breath. "All right then. Symptoms?"

I bit my lower lip. "Diarrhea going on four days. Nausea and vomiting for the last two. Weakness – likely due to lack of hydration. I've probably contracted a rotovirus-"

Samuels held up his hand. "Slow down. I know you're a doctor, Martin, but you've come to me for medical advice. How about letting me do my job?"

He had a point, reluctant as I was to admit it. "All right."

"Any recent illnesses?"

"No. Although a number of my patients recently came down with the Norwalk virus."

"I see. How long ago?"

"Three, four weeks."

"Hmm." He made a few notes. "Any blood in your stool?"

I grimaced. "Not so I've noticed."

"Any family history of—" Samuels glanced down at my registration form and frowned before looking up at me. "Blast! Where are your patient notes?"

I met his eyes without flinching. "London, I expect."

"London! When's the last time you've seen a doctor?"

"When I was in London."

"That was three years ago! Martin, are you stupid or only ignorant?"

"Neither," I replied crossly. "There's been no need for me to see a doctor."

"So you're telling me you haven't had so much as a physical in three years." He leaned forward in his chair. "You of all people know the importance of routine medicals. No use doing it today but I want you to schedule one within the month."

I rolled my eyes.

"I'm serious."

"I came here for treatment of an acute medical problem, not to be lectured."

Samuels gave me a slight smile. "And I'm sure you never lecture your patients."

I only scowled in reply.

"Well maybe it's about time that someone gave you a lecture. You take care of everyone else's medical needs – who takes care of yours?"

When I pointedly turned away, he shook his head and sighed loudly. "Right. Your medical problem. Any abdominal pain?"

"What you'd expect given the gastrointestinal symptoms."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

Samuels continued the painstaking questioning which was, I had to admit, was at least as thorough as mine would have been.

He set down his pen. "All right then. Let's have a look at you." He nodded toward the adjoining examination room. "There's a gown on the table. Undress and put it on. I'll be with you in a minute."

God help me.

* * *

Control. Being a doctor and especially being a surgeon was all about control. The operating theater, where I'd spent much of my professional life, was the ultimate in control, a place where the surgeon's knowledge and skill meant power over life itself. I'd had all that – until one day I didn't.

Other than the operating theater, there was no place a doctor exercised more control than the examination room, with the power to direct a patient to disrobe and then engage in all manner of poking and prodding and testing. And, as I was quickly coming to realize, other than the operating theater, where the patient was invariably unconscious, there was no place where a patient exercised less control.

I shrugged out of my coat. Louisa had suggested that a shirt and trousers would be sufficient for the visit. "You're ill, Martin," she'd said. "You don't need to wear a suit."

But I did because it was who I was. And, if there was any place where I needed the comfort of that familiarity, it was inside another GP's surgery.

I loosened my tie and eased it over my neck, then moved to unbutton my shirt, just as I ordered my patients to do every day. Of course, I usually added some comment intended to hurry them along.

I didn't need such encouragement from Samuels, as the process of standing had caused my queasiness to resurface with a vengeance. While I didn't particularly look forward to an examination _of_ me rather than _by_ me, at this point I was only too willing to sit down and even lie down on the table.

I made short work of my remaining clothes and pulled on the gown. It was standard medical issue, which meant that it was too thin, too short, and far too revealing. And even though I knew all that was to come, awaiting my fate left me with an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability.

After knocking and asking if I was ready with a formal politeness, Samuels returned to the examination room and started taking my vital signs.

"Mrs. Briggs usually does these. In your case," he looked up from the sphygmomanometer and winked, "I thought you might prefer that I did them myself."

"Thank you," was all I could manage, wincing inwardly at the mere thought of enduring another minute with the loquacious Mrs. Briggs.

"Your pressure's a little low and your pulse a bit fast," Samuels reported. "Not surprising, given your symptoms." When I didn't respond, he touched my shoulder. "You okay?"

I blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. "A bit . . ."

Samuels sensed my discomfort. "Here, lie down." I was pushed back onto the exam table and he again took my pulse. "Better?" he said after a moment.

"Yeah."

"You're quite dehydrated. Any luck taking in liquids?"

"Not much," I admitted.

"Rough being ill, isn't it," he said with legitimate sympathy. "Okay, let's finish this up so we can get you back to bed where you belong." Firm hands competently probed my abdomen. The palpation hurt, but days of vomiting and diarrhea will do that to you. I was virtually certain the pain was due to my gastrointestinal upset rather than any underlying condition.

"Abdomen's soft and a bit tender," Samuels confirmed. "But otherwise unremarkable. Did you bring in a stool sample?"

"Uh . . . no."

"No worries," he replied in a voice that was entirely too cheerful. "I'll get one now; probably easier anyway. Just roll over onto your side."

Control or, in my case, a total lack thereof.


	4. Chapter 4

"Go ahead and get dressed, but leave your shirt off," Samuels said a few minutes later as he scribbled his notes. He'd turned his back to allow me a measure of privacy as I pulled on my trousers.

My eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"You need IV saline."

"No I don't."

"Of course you do. Two liters to combat the dehydration. And," he held up his hand before I could protest, "Given that I'm fairly certain your condition is bacterial, not viral – probably _Campylobacter _- I'll give you a dose IV ciprofloxacin while you're here and then start you on an oral course of Levaquin."

I processed the information as I tugged on my undershirt, looking longingly at my tie and suitcoat. Without cultures, which wouldn't be completed for a few days, the primary reason to suspect a bacterial rather than viral cause was . . . "Then there was blood in—" I began.

Samuels turned back around to face me. "Yes. The cultures will provide confirmation, but I'd like to get you started on treatment straight away." He motioned me back onto the exam table. "Now, lie down before you fall down," he said, not unkindly.

Assuming Samuels was right, my illness was unrelated to the viral infection that had made its way through Portwenn nearly a month ago. That provided a small dose of comfort, although I had no doubt that my fellow citizens would nonetheless accuse me of infecting myself as I'd managed to infect the rest of the village.

Samuels brought over the infusion equipment and searched for a vein in my arm. "This one should do," he said, swabbing the inside of my elbow with antiseptic. I turned my head away in anticipation of the needle, pinching my eyes closed when I felt the stick.

"Damn," I heard Samuels mutter.

When I opened my eyes and glanced over to see what he was doing, I nearly vomited all over myself. Samuels was wiping away blood. He'd clearly missed my vein.

"Sorry 'bout that." He frowned. "Should I get you some Compazine?" he asked, obviously mistaking my nausea as a symptom of my illness rather than my reaction to the fresh blood.

I lay back and took several deep breaths. "No, I'm all right."

Samuels tapped my arm in an attempt to bring my vein to the surface, then grabbed a fresh needle. "Here we go."

"Ow! I exclaimed as I felt the needle again go astray. "For god's sake, what the hell are you doing?" IVs inserted properly weren't all that painful; the failed efforts were starting to hurt, not to mention I'd have a huge hematoma for days.

I tried jerking my arm away and, given my reclined position and weakened state, he easily grabbed onto it and held it in place. "Easy, Martin. The dehydration is causing your veins to disappear."

I turned onto my side toward him and reached for the needle he'd just pulled from his supply cabinet. "Give me the damn needle; I'll do it myself."

He pulled it away from me like a parent holding a toy above a child's head. "Stop it. I'm perfectly capable of starting an IV."

"I've seen no evidence to support that."

"Shut up, Martin. Your kibitzing isn't helpful."

"Neither is your stabbing me repeatedly."

Samuels took that moment to insert the needle once again. Fortunately for both of us, this time his aim was true and, within a few minutes, a bag of saline was flowing into me. In short order, he'd piggybacked the IV cipro. Just dandy.

"You're going to be here for a bit," he said. "Would you like me to send in your girlfriend to keep you company?"

"Louisa? She's not my girlfriend."

Samuels smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Really? She certainly seems . . . quite fond of you."

"She drove me to your surgery," I replied defensively, starting to sit up. "I hardly think that qualifies as adoration."

"She just drove you to the surgery? Looks like a bit more to me."

"I came here for medical treatment, not for advice on how to lead my personal life!"

Samuels stepped over to the exam table and pressed his hand against my chest. "Martin, calm down and lie down." He put the BP cuff around the arm without the IV.

I bristled at the attention. "I am calm. I just don't like your insinuations."

"I wasn't insinuating anything. She's a lovely young woman and I simply thought you and she – oh, never mind." He pulled the stethoscope from his ears. "Your BP is elevated. Try relaxing and taking some deep breaths."

It took another fifteen minutes before he was satisfied that my pressure had come down. "Now," he said, in a somewhat exasperated tone, "would you like to see Miss Glasson or not?"

I considered whether it was worse to leave Louisa with the talkative Mrs. Briggs or to have her hovering over me. "Send her in."

I closed my eyes and allowed the medication to do its work. I'd started to doze off when there was a knock at the door.

"Martin?"

I lifted my head. "Louisa?"

A few seconds later, her face hovered over mine. "How are you feeling?"

Why did people feel the need to ask the question when they already knew the answer? I'd been on the IVs for only a few minutes; my condition clearly hadn't changed. "Tired."

She stared at the IVs. "What are those?"

The last person she'd probably seen with an IV was Peter Cronk in the back of an ambulance. Because he'd been bleeding out, I'd been forced to place the line in his carotid. It had been a harrowing event with a critically ill patient and undoubtedly something she hadn't forgotten.

"Saline and an antibiotic." Normally, I'd launch into a brief explanation but I felt poorly and Louisa probably didn't care about the effects of quinolones on infectious diarrhea. Nor was it a subject I wanted to discuss with her.

"Will you need to go to hospital?"

"No."

She sat down in the small room's only chair. I stared at the one thing I could see in my supine position – the beams of the roof. There were eight across, each probably six inches wide. One of them was of a lighter shade, which meant it had been replaced recently.

"Martin?"

I'm comfortable with silence; Louisa is not.

"Martin!"

"What is it?"

"Can I get you anything?"

"No."

"You should see the children, Martin, so excited about the spring pageant. Hard to believe it's only a week away. Of course, there's so much planning to do what with six classes each having their own performance—"

"Louisa." I kept my gaze on the ceiling.

"Yes, Martin."

"Would you please just . . ." I sighed.

"Yes, Martin?"

"Shut up." Without waiting for a reply, I closed my eyes and tried to fight the waves of nausea that still passed through me.


	5. Chapter 5

A check of my watch revealed the IVs had been running for nearly an hour and the coolness of the fluids dripping into my veins was now causing me to shiver.

"Louisa, could you get me a blanket?"

When there was no response, I looked to where she'd been sitting only to find an empty seat. Damn.

Samuels returned just as the final drops from the IVs went into my arm.

"Feeling any better?" he asked.

I shrugged noncommittally.

"How's the nausea?"

"I haven't vomited since I've been here, if that's what you mean."

"Well, after the IVs, the ride home might well change all that. I can give you some Compazine before you leave."

The last thing I wanted was an injection in my buttocks. "No."

"Come on, Martin. You don't want to be sick all over your car."

What a lovely thought. I shook my head in defiance.

"All right then, have it your way." It was as if he was tired of fighting me. "We'll go with Phenergan PO – hopefully, that'll do the trick. In the meantime, I'd like to get another liter of saline in before you go."

I'd already been here far too long and we had a long drive back. "No."

Samuels picked up my free hand and tented my skin. "You're still dehydrated."

"I can give myself the IV at home."

"You can, but be sure you do. Stay in bed, drink plenty of fluids, go easy on the solids and you should be much better in 48 hours—"

"I am a doctor," I replied indignantly. "I know what to do."

"Good. Then, I'll give you a call tomorrow," Samuels said. "If you're not feeling better, I'll drop by." He finished unhooking me from the IV. "Also, if you have any urgent cases, have your receptionist call me and I'll try to fit them in until you're back on your feet.

Hopefully, that wouldn't be necessary. Additional fluids, another day of antibiotics, some bedrest, and I'd be well on my way to recovery. At least that's what I assumed.

"And," Samuels wagged a finger at me, "don't forget to make an appointment for that MOT."

"Right."

Louisa looked up when I entered the waiting room a few minutes later, her face expressionless. "Ready to go?" she asked.

I bit my lower lip and nodded. "Yes." More than ready.

Mrs. Briggs stood up from the desk. "Louisa, dear, I've so enjoyed visiting with you." The older woman turned to me. "She's such a nice young lady."

"Yes, yes, she is."

"Driving you all the way here and then waiting for such a long time while you were with the doctor."

Would this woman ever shut up? "Yes."

"You know, Doctor Ellingham, sometimes when we're not feeling well, we say things that we don't really mean. Even to those we care about the most."

I raised an eyebrow at her. "Do we?"

The trip home was uneventful, unless one counted stopping twice by the side of the road to vomit as noteworthy events. On the way, I phoned Pauline and learned that, while a number of patients had called the surgery, there were no emergencies that required my immediate attention. In a rare display of efficiency, she'd canceled my appointments for that afternoon and the following morning. We'd see how I progressed after that.

In fairness, the saline had done wonders and, as I climbed the steps to my front door an hour later, I felt marginally stronger.

"Thank you for . . . driving," I said to Louisa. "I know it was . . . an inconvenience."

"It's fine, Martin. I was happy to do it. After all, you've taken care of me many times when I've been ill."

"It's my job," I replied automatically.

She frowned. "Right," she finally said. "You were just doing your job. And I'm just another patient."

"Of course you're not just another patient. You're . . ."

"What?"

How could I explain it to her? As the GP, it was my job to care for all my patients and to treat them all equally. But where Louisa Glasson was concerned, I couldn't do it. Every time she'd been injured or ill, it was as if she were the only patient in the world. I had never, and would never, see her as 'just another patient.' But for me admit it – even to Louisa – was to admit a lack of the very professionalism in which I cloaked myself.

Before either of us could say anything more, Aunt Joan opened my front door. Louisa must have called her from the Wadebridge surgery.

She stepped outside to greet us. "Martin! Here, let me help you."

She started to take of my arm and I immediately wrested it away. "I don't need any help."

Joan turned to Louisa. "How is he?"

What was it with these people? "_He_ can speak for himself. _He_ is fine. _He_ wants to go to bed."

"Martin," Aunt Joan said, "You make a horrible patient."

"I'm not a patient. I'm a doctor with a medical problem for which I have received treatment." I looked at Louisa, who was observing our conversation with detached amusement. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I'll get him settled," Joan nodded to Louisa. "You go on. I'm sure it's been a long day," she said meaningfully.

"He's supposed to give himself another IV," Louisa reported, handing the bag of supplies to my aunt.

"You're going to do it?" Joan asked me, raising her eyebrows. "Yourself?"

"I'm perfectly capable of starting an IV," I replied indignantly. "When I'm ready. Right now, I'm going to bed. And, unless you want to accompany me," I said pointedly to both women, "you can both. Go. HOME." With that, I did my best to stomp up the stairs.

Joan said nothing but started to follow me.

"Good-bye, Martin," Louisa called from below. "I'll stop by tomorrow before school."

Once inside my room, I discovered that Auntie Joan had put fresh sheets on the bed and fresh towels in the bath. And laid out my sleepwear and robe, both of which had also been recently washed. I had to admit that it was much better than coming back to the stink that I'd left.

"Thank you," I managed to say, nodding at all she'd done.

"You're welcome. I'll leave you to get undressed then," she said, closing the bedroom door behind her.

When I'd put on my shorts and T-shirt, she came back in and started hanging up my suit.

"I can do that later. Why don't you go on home?"

"Don't be an ass. You shouldn't be alone when you're ill."

"I'm not dying. I simply need to rest and I can do that perfectly well on my own."

"Come on, Martin. I took care of you many times when you were a boy."

"If you haven't noticed, I'm no longer a boy."

"Of course not. But even adults need someone to look after them now and again. Don't worry, I won't bother you." She smiled. "But at least if you do need something, you'll know I'm here."

I eased myself into bed and allowed her to pull the covers up over me, much as she'd done when I was a boy. Now, as then, it was comforting.

She rested her head on my forehead. "Sleep well, Martin."

I closed my eyes knowing that, with her nearby, I would.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun awakened me, as it often did, well before my alarm went off. Opening my eyes, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as I considered whether, after a night's rest, I was sufficiently strong to handle the day's surgery. I'd slept reasonably well, certainly better than the past few nights, with only a couple of trips to the lavatory.

Although my GI symptoms were lessening, my weakness remained, which I knew to be a result of my unwillingness to give myself the second IV. Samuels had been right – I needed that additional liter of saline to increase my level of hydration until the antibiotics took full effect. In the meantime, despite Joan's efforts to ply me with water and rehydration salts, I was fighting a losing battle to keep up my fluid intake.

I pulled myself to a sitting position and let my legs dangle over the side of the bed, taking a moment to steady myself.

The IV supplies were still in a paper bag, still on the bedside table where I'd had placed them yesterday when I returned from Wadebridge. For much of yesterday afternoon and evening, Joan had nagged me to use them and I in turn had promised that I would. But I hadn't. Technically, it wasn't a difficult process to insert an intravenous line into oneself. For most doctors, that is.

After taking several deep breaths, I reached for the bag and peered into it. The needle, catheter, and tubing were in their sealed pouches resting atop the 100 ml bag of saline. Samuels had even included a couple of antiseptic pads. I pulled out the materials, and carefully placed each one on the bed beside me, fingering them carefully. Already my palms were sweaty and I sensed a return of the familiar tightness in my chest.

The back of my left hand would be the best site in which to insert the needle – far easier to access than the median cubital vein on the inside of my elbow. I help up my hand, spreading out my fingers and staring at the large dorsal veins running across my skin. Slowly moving my fingers to the inside of my wrist, I measured my pulse – it was bounding.

Breathe, I reminded myself. In and out.

The stick might hurt a bit due to the close proximity of the veins and nerves in the hand. Some lidocaine beforehand would help but that would mean a trip down to the surgery. I could certainly handle it without the anesthetic.

I had only to tear open the bags, remove the catheter and the tubing, swab my hand, insert the needle . . .

Damn. I rubbed my face, fighting back the panic that was already starting to engulf me. It was stupid. I'd started IVs before, on Peter Cronk and the elderly Mrs. Steele, who ironically had also suffered from dehydration. I needed to stop overthinking it and simply do what I needed to do.

Later.

I sighed heavily. I wasn't dying so the IV could wait. Best to get try to drink something this morning and, if by afternoon my strength hadn't returned, I'd give myself the infusion then. One by one, I replaced the supplies in the bag and then placed the bag on my nightstand.

It was just after 2:00 p.m. when my mobile rang. I'd been alone since lunchtime, when I'd finally managed to persuade Aunt Joan – my morning sitter – to go home and not to call Louisa – my afternoon sitter – to leave school early to stay with me. At this point, there was little they could do for me that I couldn't do for myself.

I grabbed the ringing instrument off the bedside table, ignoring the still unused bag of IV supplies. "Doctor Ellingham."

"Oh," came a female voice that I tried unsuccessfully to place. "I wasn't expectin' you."

"You called my number – who did you think would answer?" When there was no reply, I added, "Who is this?"

"It's Dorothy McShay. I heard you were ill. I hope I'm not bothering you."

"Of course you're bothering me. Do you have a medical problem?"

"Well, I don't know. I guess it's that I wanted your advice."

"You guess you wanted my advice?" I mimicked, cursing myself for having even answered the damned phone.

"It's my daughter Emma."

One of the band of roving and obnoxious teenagers. I sighed. "Does _Emma_ have a _medical problem_?"

"That's where I need your advice."

When she didn't continue, I added, "Go on."

"She wants to go to a party tonight with her girlfriends, but she's been a bit off all day so I don't know—"

"Off how?" I interrupted. One thing I'd learned during my time in Portwenn was that patients didn't always express their symptoms as clearly as I'd have liked. Invariably, some interpretation was required.

"She's been sick to her stomach and has a bit of fever. And she hasn't eaten a bite since yesterday."

It sounded somewhat like my own situation, and I started to fear we'd have another mini-epidemic of GI illness in the village, which was not something I looked forward to. "She should stay in bed. If she gets worse or develops additional symptoms, call me back." I started to hang up.

"There's one other thing."

"Isn't there always?" I asked, stifling a groan.

"This morning, she said her tummy hurt."

That got my attention. "Where was the pain?"

"In her tummy. I figured it was just the curse."

My eyes narrowed. "The what?"

"The curse." Mrs. McShay lowered her voice to an almost conspiratorial tone. "You know, that time of the month."

"You mean menstrual cramps."

"Yeah. She gets them real bad sometimes."

The mother could well be right, it could be dysmenorrhea combined with a touch of gastroenteritis. However, something about the presentation troubled me. "Is she still in pain?"

"She started feeling a little better about an hour ago, which is why I called. To see if she was okay to go to the party."

I sat down heavily on the bed. "Let me speak to your daughter." A not very pleasant scenario was starting to form in my mind.

"Why?"

"Because I need to speak with her. Now!"

There was the shuffling of the phone being shifted and the quieter, weaker voice of the sixteen-year-old came on the line. "Hello."

"Emma, this is Dr. Ellingham. You mother tells me you were ill today. What are your symptoms?"

"I'm better now."

"I want to know about earlier today, when you had the pain in your stomach." When she hesitated, I added, "If you want to go to your party, you'll answer my questions. Now what were your symptoms?"

I painstakingly ran through each symptom, all of which pointed to the possibility of an urgent medical situation.

"But I'm feeling better now," she repeated.

Which, ironically, only made the situation worse. "Give the phone to your mother."

"You'll tell her I can go to my party."

"No."

When the mother came back on, I said, "Mrs. McShay, it's possible that Emma is very ill. I'm going to come see her straight away. Don't let her leave the house. Do you understand me? Do not let her leave."


	7. Chapter 7

After hanging up the phone, I considered calling for an ambulance. However, if what I suspected was true, Emma would need the speed of the air ambulance and I dare not summon that until I had more than mere suspicion on my side.

First off, I needed to get dressed. I stood up from the bed and swore aloud when I found myself swaying. I grabbed onto the headboard and slowly sat back down, forcing myself to take deep breaths and then drink an entire glass of water. It was no substitute for the IV fluids that I had – stupidly, I now realized – failed to give myself. However, for the present, it would have to do.

It took me longer than usual to get dressed and, in the interest of time and because I was too fatigued to tie a proper knot, I skipped the tie. As I pulled on my jacket, I heard the front door open and, from the entryway, Louisa's voice calling me. We met halfway down the stairs, she bounding up and I hanging onto the rail to keep from tumbling down.

"Martin?" She stared at me in surprise. "You're dressed. Where are you going?"

"I need to see Emma McShay. She may be seriously ill."

She eyed me critically. "You can barely stand. You're in no condition to—"

"Don't argue. I need you to drive me over there right now." The McShay home was only a quarter-mile away but there was no way I could walk, let alone run, that distance and Louisa's appearance was an unexpected godsend.

Whether it was my curt words or the serious expression on my face, thankfully Louisa stayed mum as I grabbed my medical bag, stuffed the bag of IV supplies into it, and followed her to my Lexus.

The trip from the house to the car left me exhausted and, sinking heavily into the leather passenger seat, I leaned back against the headrest and swallowed a few deep breaths.

Louisa eyed me curiously. "Are you sure you're all right?"

I blinked rapidly. "Drive."

We arrived within minutes and, once there, my mind willed me to spring out of the car and rush up the steps into the McShay home. My body, however, reacted much more slowly and I didn't resist when Louisa grabbed my elbow to steady me.

The front door was unlocked and we let ourselves in.

Hearing us, Mrs. McShay called from upstairs. "Is that you, Doc? Up here! Quickly. She's hurting real bad."

"Is the pain worse?" I asked, pushing past her into Emma's room.

"I think so," Mrs. McShay replied. "Help her."

Setting my bag on the floor, I slid onto the bed beside the girl, who was clearly in significant discomfort.

"Emma, it's Doctor Ellingham."

Her eyes turned toward me and she moaned slightly. "Doc . . ."

The fingers of my right hand reached for her carotid pulse and the back of my left pressed against her forehead. Her pulse was fast and I estimated her temperature was elevated several degrees. Neither fact surprised me.

I pressed my hands lightly on the girl's abdomen.

"Aahh!" The reaction was immediate as she tried to twist away from me.

"Oh, God!" her mother cried from above my left shoulder. "What are you doing to her?"

"I'm examining her." I continued, noting rigidity as well as the rebound tenderness in the lower right quadrant. Damn.

"Stop! It hurts!" the girl cried.

"Martin?" Louisa asked nervously.

Ignoring both of them, in an instant, my mobile was in my hand. "This is Dr. Ellingham, the GP in Portwenn," I told the emergency dispatcher. "I have a sixteen-year-old girl with a surgical abdomen. I need an air ambulance immediately; they can land in the port harbor." After going through this with Peter Cronk and others, I now knew the routine.

"Are you sure it's a surgical abdomen?" the dispatcher asked, making no effort to hide the skepticism in his voice.

"Of course I'm sure. It's likely a perforated appendix with peritonitis."

"Oh my God," Mrs. McShay wailed.

"Quiet," I ordered.

"Doctor," the ambulance dispatcher was speaking again. "Meaning no disrespect, but many conditions can look like—"

"Listen you idiot, before I was a GP, I was Chief of Surgery, so I know a surgical abdomen when I see one. Now, you can kill this girl trying to prove me wrong or send that air ambulance. Take your time," I added sarcastically.

After receiving assurances the helicopter would be on site within thirty minutes, I hung up and dialed the pharmacy.

"Mrs. Tishell," I interrupted the woman's usual lengthy greeting. "This is an emergency. I urgently need IV ampicillin or cefoxitin for a case of peritonitis. Do you have either on hand?"

"I have some ampicillin, Doctor. Shall I—"

"Miss Glasson will come for it. She'll be there in five minutes. Please have it ready for her." I closed the phone without waiting for a reply and turned to Louisa. "Go now. Quickly."

She nodded and, without a word, ran out of the room. Seconds later, I heard my car pull away.

"Doctor," Mrs. McShay asked, "is she going to die?"

"Not if I can help it." I reached into my black case for the bag of IV supplies and dumped the contents onto the bed.

"What are you doing?" the mother asked nervously.

"Giving her fluids," I said, handing her the bag of saline. "Hold this. Up high." I turned back to the girl. At this point, I wasn't sure she fully aware of what was going on around her. "Emma, I'm going to insert a needle into your arm so I can give you some medicine. It'll just be a small prick. Be still now."

Finding a suitable vein, I forced myself not to look away as I inserted the needle and watched for the flashback. As always, bile rose in my throat at the sight of the blood. When I leaned over to vomit, I realized that one benefit of not being able to keep anything down was having nothing to come back up.

I quickly connected the IV tubing and adjusted the flow, then again checked Emma's pulse. The saline would only do so much. Where the bloody hell was Louisa with the antibiotic?

"Mrs. McShay," I need you to find two men – neighbors maybe – someone who can carry Emma to my car."

"I—can't." She was in tears.

"You must. We need to drive Emma to the harbor and she's not able to walk. We need two strong men. Quickly now."

"I can't leave her."

I looked her squarely in the eyes. "If you want to help your daughter, do as I say."

She'd been gone less than a minute when the sound of a car engine signaled Louisa's return. A minute later, she rushed into the room and thrust the plastic IV bag toward me. "Here."

"Thank you." I quickly added the ampicillin to the IV. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. I re checked the girl's pupils and heartrate; she was as stable as she'd get until she reached the hospital.

"Is she going to be all right?" Louisa asked.

"I hope so," I replied honestly.

"Can't you do something – like you did for Peter?"

I shook my head. "No. She's probably had appendicitis for more than a day. I suspect her appendix has perforated causing peritonitis – an inflammation of the stomach lining. There's nothing more I can do for her here. We need to get her to hospital."

I glanced at my watch – ten minutes until the air ambulance was due to arrive.


	8. Chapter 8

Under my supervision, the two neighbors recruited by Mrs. McShay carefully transferred Emma from her bed to my car. I sat in the back seat, her head in my lap, monitoring her pulse and the IV, while Louisa drove. Mrs. McShay, in the front passenger seat, turned around so she could keep an eye on her daughter.

"Drive slowly, Louisa," I said. "We don't want to jostle her."

She nodded and I could see that, as her hands gripped the steering wheel, she was shaking. Even so, she did as instructed, smoothly and carefully maneuvering through the winding streets towards the harbor.

The girl remained stable, although still in pain. "Doc," she said, "I feel like I'm going to die."

"You're not going to die." Reassurance wasn't my strong point. I tried to keep my voice soft. "You're going to hospital, where they'll take good care of you."

"Will they have to operate?"

"Yes, I expect they will."

"Will I have a scar?"

It never ceased to amaze me the things that went through the minds of young girls. "It will depend . . ." I closed my mouth before I started to explain the relative merits of laparoscopy versus open surgery. "Maybe a very small one," I finally said. My answer seemed to reassure Emma because she closed her eyes and fell silent.

It was a short drive to the harbor and, once there, I rolled down the window, listening for the arrival of the helicopter.

Unlike the night with Peter Cronk, it was only a few minutes later that I heard the sound of the air ambulance approaching. Thank goodness.

Once the helicopter had landed, the attendant jumped out and approached the open door of the car.

"Sixteen-year-old girl with rigid abdomen and rebound tenderness. She's been in pain for more than a day, with fever and nausea. The pain abated somewhat a few hours ago, then increased, suggesting a perforation. I've given her ampicillin and saline."

"Any pain meds?" the attendant asked me, as he and his colleague brought the stretcher to the car.

"No."

It didn't take long to complete the transfer. The crew agreed to take Mrs. McShay with them in the helicopter and she quickly climbed inside.

"Are you coming with us, Doc?" the ambulance attendant asked me.

"Uh, no." As I'd told Louisa, there was nothing I could do for Emma – in the ambulance or at the hospital. I'd call the attending surgeon to follow up on her condition. Emma would need a course of antibiotics and surgery, but by now I was confident she'd survive.

"All right," the attendant said. "We'll be off then." She closed the door to the helicopter and the rate of rotation of the blades overhead started to increase.

My work done, I bent over and started to make my way out of the landing zone to allow the helicopter to take off.

It was now dusk and, in the distance, I saw the headlights of an approaching car. They seemed to blend with the lights from the buildings that lined the harbor. The car came to a stop as it entered the harbor and someone stepped out. As I squinted to see, I found myself blinking rapidly, trying to keep the horizon in focus.

Adrenaline is such a good thing while it lasts. With Emma safely on her way, the rush that had sustained me for the past hour was now quickly ebbing. My legs suddenly felt heavy and I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Behind me, the speed of the rotors increased until the sound was deafening. Some part of my brain urged me to keep going, so that I wouldn't be knocked over by the rotational blast of the rising chopper. I took another step, trying to keep my body upright and my head down.

"Martin!" The voice seemed very far away.

My body was buffeted by a rush of air, and I staggered to remain upright. It was as if someone had pushed me over. The ground rose up and my knees were jammed into the moist soil. There was sand everywhere, in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I was so tired, so very tired. I just needed to lie down.

The wind increased until it seemed I was in the midst of a tornado. Where was up? I was spinning, dizzy, confused. If I could only sit down, or lie down.

"Martin!"

I reached for the voice, crawled toward it, feeling my trousers tear at the knees, the jagged rocks cutting into my skin. I tried to stand, could no longer hold myself upright. It was as if the blood was rushing out of my head.

"Grab him! Don't let him fall!"

Who? Who was falling?

I was so tired, too tired even to open my eyes, let alone move. Buzzing surrounded me.

"Oh my God. Is he dead?"

"What should we do?"

" . . . another ambulance . . . ."

"Oh, thank God." Was that Louisa's voice?

Someone was slapping my cheek. Fingers pressed against my neck. "Martin?" It was a deep voice, male. "Martin! Can you hear me? Wake up now." The slaps were a bit harder and I blinked in irritation.

"Martin! Look at me." It was Louisa and I turned slightly at the command.

"Good," the male voice above me said." "Need to get him . . . where . . .?"

". . . up the street . . . not far . . ." There was the sound of more voices that I couldn't place.

"Close enough . . . let's go . . . careful now . . ."

"Here you go, Doc. We got you."

Strong arms lifted me to my feet. It was too fast. My knees buckled and my vision clouded as the blood rushed from my head. The last things I remembered were the vice grip that wouldn't let me fall and the sound of Louisa's voice calling my name.


	9. Chapter 9

When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the smell – slightly antiseptic and intensely familiar. I knew without opening my eyes that I was in my own surgery, lying on my own examination table.

The next sense was that of something in my hand, restrictive and uncomfortable. I pulled it toward me, trying to jerk away from the irritation.

"Easy. Try not to move." It was the same male voice from the harbor, still vaguely familiar.

With little choice, I opened my eyes and found myself staring into the concerned face of Dr. Robert Samuels. A stethoscope – his own, I noted automatically – hung around his neck and the fingers of his right hand rested lightly against my wrist. I lowered my gaze to see an IV flowing into the back of my hand – he must not have been able to find a vein in my arm.

"Just saline." Samuels answered my unasked question. "The IV you apparently . . . forgot . . . to give yourself," he added with a touch of irony.

Looking down, I noted that I was wearing only undershirt on top and my trousers had been cut at the knee, where a couple of small bandages had been applied. I was a mess.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Louisa telephoned me."

"Louisa?" I was now totally confused.

Samuels adjusted the IV. "She phoned me from the pharmacist. Said you'd called for the air ambulance for your patient but that _you_ weren't steady on your own feet. She was concerned about both of you."

I remembered a car had pulled up as I was running away from the helicopter – it must have been Samuels. "It was your car."

"Huh?" Samuels obviously had no idea what I was talking about. "In any event, you're lucky. You were _severely_ dehydrated – must have been the adrenaline that pushed you through the emergency. Other than that and a couple of minor lacerations on your knee, I can't find anything wrong with you. Once we get these fluids in, you'll be fine."

"How's the girl?"

"She arrived at the hospital in stable condition. I'll phone them again in a bit."

I nodded, content. "Good."

"And then there's you."

"You said yourself that I'm fine."

"I said you _will_ be fine. You weren't so fine a half-hour ago. Louisa did the right thing, you know."

"Right," I replied in a tone that made clear I believed no such thing.

"Martin, I know you probably don't give a damn what I think but I'm going to tell you anyway."

I rolled my eyes. "I can't wait."

Samuels crossed his arms over his chest. "That woman is something special and she obviously cares about you. Why, I have no idea. But she does. If it weren't for her, you might well be spending the next several days in hospital. So when she comes in here, instead of criticizing her, maybe you should try – try very hard – to be just a tiny bit grateful."

Samuels was right and I knew it. As often as I chastised my patients – and especially Louisa – for not following my medical advice, I'd done the exact same thing in not following Samuels' recommendations. Had he not been there – had Louisa not called him – my condition could well be much worse right now. In this case, she'd acted sensibly while I'd acted foolishly.

I nodded.

"Shall I send her in?"

Louisa couldn't see me like this, weak, on my back, half undressed, taped to an IV pole . . .

"Not now," I said, panic starting to rise within me. I held up my hand with the IV, hoping he'd understand.

"Martin, she cares about – hell, she loves you. Which means she doesn't give a damn that you're not . . . in your damn suit and tie."

Without waiting for my reply, Samuels stepped out of my consulting room and, less than a minute later, Louisa walked in, alone. She cautiously stepped toward me.

"Louisa," I said, in the soft, low voice I reserved only for her. I sometimes wondered if she noticed.

"Martin, how are you feeling?" She seemed unfazed by my appearance or, at least, didn't say anything about it.

"I'm . . . better."

"What happened?"

"Dehydration," I said simply, shrugging off further explanation. "Samuels said you called him."

"I was concerned."

"You needn't have been."

"I didn't know that; I'm not a doctor." Louisa was starting to get agitated, as she often did when she anticipated my criticism.

"I know."

"You know? You know! Martin, you were could so weak, you could barely stand. I was scared. I apologize," she added, her voice rising with every syllable, "if I didn't want to stand by and watch you die."

"Don't." I motioned her closer and placed my hand gently on hers.

"Don't what?" she asked warily, clearly ready to go the next round in our verbal sparring match.

"Be sorry." I met her eyes, and tried to make my own smile. "You were right to phone Samuels."

Here eyes widened. Clearly, it wasn't the response she'd been expected. "I was?"

"Yes. And, if I'd followed Samuels' advice and given myself the IV yesterday, none of this would have happened."

"But you're all right now?"

"Yes."

"Good." She seemed to relax a little. "Martin Ellingham, I don't understand you."

I gave her my most innocent look. "How do you mean?"

"You're rude and obnoxious to your patients all day long. But, when they really need you, like with Peter and Emma – especially the children, well you," she squeezed my hand. "You're a great doctor and a special person. You . . . amaze me."

I hadn't really thought about it that way. As far as I was concerned, I was simply being a competent doctor for my patients. The sicker they were, the more they needed me. I was just doing what I needed to do, when I needed to do it. It was strange, but also oddly pleasing, that Louisa felt the way she did about my actions.

I know I was expected to say something kind in response, in order to . . . as Louisa often liked to say . . . move things forward. However, as I tried to formulate the right words, I was overcome by an unusual sensation.

"Louisa?"

She gripped my hand tighter. "Martin, for once . . . for just once, let me say something nice about you without you changing the subject or making it into something else. It's all right to be liked and appreciated you know. And not just as a doctor."

"But, Louisa . . ."

"Just . . . shut up," she said softly and again squeezed my hand. Normally, I would have welcomed the contact. However . . .

I stayed silent as long as I could. "Uh, Louisa."

"Martin!" she warned softly.

I looked down. "You're squeezing the IV. It's digging the needle into the back of my hand and pressing on my radial nerve. It hurts."

She immediately disengaged her hand from mine. "Oh, sorry."

"It's all right." I did my best to smile as I lifted up my other hand and reached for hers. "This one is free."

_~The End ~_

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**My sincere thanks to all of you who've taken the time to post reviews and comments on my story. I appreciate each and every one of them more than you know.**

**I'm hard at work on a second story.**


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